


once upon a december

by cacowhistle



Series: ad astra per aspera [7]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, typical ad astra per aspera balance of angst and fluff, we're getting into the veeeeery beginnings of plot things :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:33:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29210421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacowhistle/pseuds/cacowhistle
Summary: nostalgia;noun - a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.Recovery used to be so much easier, Tommy thinks, before they all got angry at each other and fucked things up for their future. He wants to be able to rely on them all again.Why is it so damn hard?
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: ad astra per aspera [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060727
Comments: 27
Kudos: 281





	once upon a december

While the pitch blackness upon opening his eyes is a fairly solid sign of something being wrong, Tommy is calm as he surveys the slightly shifting expanse of darkness. He breathes in and the saltwater burns on the way down, and he begins to choke. Unable to catch his breath, he lashes out, fingers swiping through darkness as he tries to pull himself up, find which way _is_ up, as water drags him down and he twists in the endless expanse. It chills him down to the bone, this endless ocean that surrounds him, and if he weren’t already surrounded by an utter absence of light, he’s fairly sure the edges of his vision would be going black.

The space finally lightens, slightly, around him, just enough to make out shapes in the murky water. His eyes burn with saltwater and tears and his chest _hurts,_ his eyelids fluttering as he tries to fight his way out of the waves. He’s just so _tired._

There is a hand clasped around the back of his neck, now, and every muscle tenses in protest, heart racing as he tries to twist away. His body barely responds as he chokes, and he is being lifted up and out of the water and cast onto the sandy shore underneath a midnight sky, and Tommy heaves as saltwater and bile burns his throat on the way back up.

Fingers trembling as they dig into the sand, he doesn’t have time to recover from the ordeal before someone is saying his name, kind and gentle and worried, he thinks, and he can’t quite make out the voice, just that it’s saying his name, but when he manages a glance over his shoulder it’s Dream, and his muscles all lock up but Dream is petting the hair back from his face and cooing sympathetically and asking if he’s alright and Tommy has just been so _alone_ , and he melts into the comfort.

Before he can even blink, the hand on his cheek shifts, turns colder, and the face before him is a _face_ , not Dream’s shitty mask, and Wilbur glares down at him and Tommy is bone-dry in the caverns of Pogtopia, backed against a wall with only the faintest echoes of pain in his chest where his lungs filled with the sea, and Wilbur is saying _something_ but Tommy can’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way Wilbur’s fingers dig into his skin and just how _unsafe_ he feels around this man he considers family.

Wilbur bleeds, it pours from his chest and mouth and he’s shouting, he’s screaming _something_ and Tommy just can’t _hear_ it for the life of him, but it strikes fear into his heart faster than anything else has so far, the unhinged and wild way Wilbur rants and raves, bloodstained knife in hand with a sword sticking out from between his ribs and Tommy knows this isn’t how it went, knows its dozens of memories of Wilbur hurt to some sort of extreme, whether self-inflicted or otherwise, but he remembers Philza spearing his older brother through on the ruins of this beautiful thing they’d built together and Wilbur laughing and wailing and losing it as the TNT detonated and Technoblade holding a crossbow to Tubbo’s head as he shouts about heroes, and a _scream_ tears itself from Tommy’s throat.

It doesn’t stop when he wakes up.

He bites down _hard_ on his hand to shut himself up, his fearful cry choking off into muted whimpers. He tastes blood and pulls his hand away, trembling so hard he’s afraid he won’t be able to stand. The room is dark around him, and that’s almost worse than anything else right now, so he forces himself to stand and blindly goes for the doors, shoving them open and stumbling out into the snow.

It’s freezing out, but it’s brighter than it was inside with the moonlight reflecting off the snow, and Tommy stumbles across the yard with his hands clapped against his mouth to stifle any noise, legs giving out just as he reaches the bloodstained altar sitting behind the cabin. He’s only seen it in use once, Techno had bled a rabbit onto the stones and Tommy had gotten fairly grossed out and left it alone since then, but it radiates warmth and an odd feeling of protection as he settles into the snow beside it.

There’s a hissing murmur in the back of his mind, like his own thoughts, but different, and it’s oddly comforting to know he isn’t alone out here.

“I’ll go in a minute,” he gasps, under his breath, “I just needed some air.”

The voices chitter in a language he doesn’t understand but he’s heard Techno speak, but they seem calm and… concerned, almost.

“M’okay.” He can’t muster up the energy to say anything else.

His throat closes up at the sight of the basement doors opening, and he sees a shorter figure step out into the snow, wings extending. Phil, he realizes, and tucks himself behind the altar. It’s big enough to hide him, from that angle, at the very least. He doesn’t want to be found, right now. He hears more sets of footsteps, panicked voices that he can’t quite make out--his hearing feels all fucked, like he’s standing in the aftermath of an explosion, voices around him muffled and a ringing in his ears that just won’t quit.

The slamming of a door brings him back to the real world a bit. Someone’s calling his name--Wilbur, he thinks, in that shrill half-shriek half-squawk he does when he’s terrified, and guilt and dread settles like a stone to the bottom of a river in Tommy’s gut.

Fuck, he’s going to be in so much trouble.

He has to bite down on his hand again to keep from crying, trembling from fear and the cold. He shouldn’t have run outside, he should have just pretended to go back to bed or waited on the porch or sat by the fireplace upstairs, anything _but_ run off. His mind runs a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what to do, how to fix this.

He tastes blood again, and the murmuring in the back of his mind rises to an incessant chattering.

The altar doesn’t feel safe anymore.

Frozen in place, Tommy doesn’t know what he fears more--the old magic thrumming in the stones beside him, or the three men out in the snow searching for him.

_(“Let’s be the bad guys” and “You want to be a hero?” and “I’ll be back soon” and, and, and--)_

“Tech,” he calls out, weakly, voice wavering. He can barely hear himself over the muttering in the back of his mind that is quickly crescendoing.

He’s just so cold, and tired, and _scared_ all the time, and when has anyone ever taken that into account?

He hears footsteps and curls in on himself further. He sees familiar boots, Techno’s boots, the hoofprints they leave in the snow, sees hands reaching towards him and he doesn’t have the energy to flinch away. Techno lifts him up like he doesn’t weigh anything, and Tommy sees red in the snow where his hand had been.

Techno’s saying something, but he isn’t listening. At least not until Techno shakes him a little too roughly, enough so that it hurts his shoulder.

“What?” He mumbles, lifting his gaze. When was the last time he’d seen Techno this worried?

“-id you get any blood on the altar?”

Tommy blinks, frowning. Did he? He doesn’t think so. He lifts his hand a little, studying the bite mark. It’s bleeding, still, but he didn’t touch the stones. He shakes his head, and Technoblade’s shoulders sag with what seems to be relief.

“Thank the gods,” he mutters, before turning with Tommy still in his arms and calling out, “I found him.”

There’s footsteps in the snow and the voices get all muffled again. Tommy buries his face in Techno’s chest and trembles, tries to get ahold of himself. He doesn’t want to fucking cry in front of all of them--they’re well past that, of course, but it’s still humiliating and his cheeks burn red with shame from how he’s dragged them all out of the house at ass o’clock in the morning into the cold.

He’s being settled on the couch in the living room before he can really process where they’re going, a blanket draped around his shoulders and someone getting the fire going.

It’s warm and comfortable and Tommy is halfway back to sleeping before a hand pets the hair back from his face and he snaps back to attention, shoulders tensing and a choked off whine sounding in the back of his throat. The hand pulls back like it’s been stung.

“Sorry,” he rasps.

Wilbur smiles, but it’s tense and worried and doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s alright.”

A low-set murmur rises in the back of his mind. _Lying, he’s lying,_ part of him howls, and Tommy curls in on himself a bit more. It’s fine, he’s fine, he just wants to go back to sleep--he doesn’t even remember what woke him up in the first place, just that he’s scared and tired and doesn’t want to be the focus right now.

Something brushes against his hand and he jerks away, breath stuttering. He hears Techno’s voice, muffled beneath that fucking _muttering_ , he’s going to _kill_ whoever it is, and blinks blearily, trying to focus.

“Tommy?”

He hums, vaguely, in response, brow furrowing slightly. Techno’s hand hovers over his own.

“Tommy, I need to wrap this, you okay with that?” He leans into Tommy’s line of sight. Tommy’s gaze flicks to his still-bleeding hand.

Ah. Right.

He manages a nod and braces himself just before Techno takes ahold of his arm and sets to work. Tommy ignores how his skin burns at the contact--he’s too tired to really react, anyways, and by the time Techno’s done, he’s already begun to doze off against Wilbur’s shoulder.

His sleep isn’t peaceful. But at least it isn’t about Dream.

* * *

The next morning, Tommy finds himself at the kitchen table, silent. The others are as active as ever--a bit tired, considering how Tommy kept them up _(something he still feels guilty for, a restless jitter in his leg and an incomprehensible murmur in the back of his mind)._ Wilbur is poking fun at Techno as he burns breakfast, and Phil is watching the two with good-natured exasperation.

Tommy leans on his good hand, not quite paying attention to whatever they’re talking about. He’s still tired, truth be told, his hand hurts, and he wants to go back to bed.

It’s an attempt at normalcy. Tommy can feel the tension beneath the surface, how none of them are quite looking him in the eye. How none of them bring up last night, as if it’s just as sensitive as the day L’manburg blew for the second time, just as sensitive as Phil’s wings.

Christ. They have an awful lot they need to talk about, don’t they?

Tommy’s avoided thinking about it for so long, but familiar hatred and horror rises in him at the thought of the explosions and the withers. Techno and Wilbur are laughing like nothing’s gone wrong, like nothing’s happened between any of them, and it’s so blatantly false and ignorant that Tommy almost wants to _laugh._ He stifles a hysterical giggle with one hand, smothering the sound before it’s even really out of his mouth. Phil is the only one who seems to notice--he raises his eyebrows, a silent _are you okay?_

He just nods. If everyone else is lying, he might as well do it too.

He knows Phil doesn’t believe him. He can’t quite find it in him to care. Tommy closes his eyes, briefly--he’s just so tired, a minute or two won’t hurt. Someone’s muttering, over Wilbur and Techno--it doesn’t sound like Phil. He can’t quite make out who it _does_ sound like.

Maybe it’s Dream. Maybe he’s here to finally drag him back, put an axe through his neck, take his third life and end it all for him.

He opens his eyes again to find Phil still watching him. Wilbur and Techno are arguing about _something,_ and the way Wilbur’s voice rises makes Tommy’s stomach drop.

“M’gonna go back to bed,” he mumbles, shoving back from the table. He’s tired, and not that hungry anyways, and ignores the way Wilbur calls after him, questioning.

Tommy flops down on his mattress as soon as he gets down to the basement, not bothering to pull a blanket up. It’s cold down here, enough so that he can feel his fingers beginning to go numb. He curls his hands into fists around his blankets, digging them in as if the heavy comforter will warm him all on its own. He’s half tempted to go lie in the snow to wake himself up, but it’s far more likely he’ll just be cold and wet and even more exhausted, if that were possible, so he sits in the ice-cold basement and waits for something he’s not sure he even wants.

His prayers are answered when Wilbur comes down the ladder.

Wilbur doesn’t say a word, just flops down on the bed beside him, humming faintly. Tommy curls towards him, burying his face in his shoulder, and Wilbur wordlessly brings his arms around to wrap Tommy in a hug.

“What’s goin’ on, man?” Wilbur asks, softly.

Tommy just sighs, long and tired and uncertain. “I’unno.”

There’s a quiet, rumbling hum in Wilbur’s chest. “That’s okay. You don’t need to know.”

They lay like that for a while, Tommy slowly beginning to relax in Wilbur’s arms. He hadn’t even realized how tense he’d been, truth be told. He can’t find the words to explain it all, so instead he lets himself be held, and Wilbur lets him rest.

A little more sleep won’t hurt anyone.

* * *

It’s on a visit back to the area around Logsteadshire--not close enough to really see it yet, but close enough to set Tommy’s stomach squirming--for materials where Tommy is feeling particularly brave. As he walks along a fallen log, keeping his balance like it’s as easy as breathing, Wilbur walking alongside him, he considers a myriad of conversation topics. He doesn’t like any of them. He spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’ve been exiled _twice,_ ” he says, bluntly. “That’s so unfair.”

Wilbur hums his agreement, and Tommy doesn’t look his way, afraid he’ll break and let so much more spill out if he sees Wilbur’s face.

“That is pretty shitty,” Wilbur agrees, though his tone is cautious. Tommy pushes down the irritation--he isn’t made of fucking glass, despite what everyone thinks. He’s very much capable of broaching these topics, thank you very much. Spite carries him forward.

“Yeah,” he huffs, “it is. I think it was better when I was with you, though. Even if you did get all…” he waves a hand vaguely, “... you know, at the end.”

Wilbur makes his displeasure known in the way his hum turns agitated. “Sure,” he says, voice clipped, and Tommy can’t help the way he cringes.

“We have to talk about it at some point,” he snaps, regardless of the nerves that twist in his gut. “We can’t just pretend it never fucking happened, Wilbur.”

“Technically we could, for one thing,” he snaps right back, “but does it have to be right now, Tommy? I dunno if you noticed, but we’re kind of in enemy territory.”

Tommy huffs. “I’m putting a lot on the line here to just come with you for this trip, the least you could do is fuckin’ indulge me.”

“ _You’re_ putting a lot on the line?” Wilbur makes a sound like he’s going to keep arguing, but it dies off into a frustrated growl that rumbles in his chest and makes Tommy wince.

“Considering this place made me want to _kill myself,_ ” he snaps, irritation boiling over, “no thanks to _you,_ by the way, yeah, I’d say I really fuckin’ am, Wilbur.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes after that, tension mounting even further the longer they go without acknowledging _that_ little outburst. Tommy’s skin crawls as the terrain turns more familiar and he begins to recognize the landmarks. He has to stop climbing on fallen logs once his legs begin to shake too much.

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur finally says, gruff and still irritated, but genuine.

Tommy scowls. “Me too,” he mumbles, shifting closer to Wilbur’s side. Neither of them say a word as they entwine their hands.

“What if he’s here?” Tommy whispers before he can stop himself. Wilbur squeezes his hand, an attempt at reassurance.

“I’ll fuckin’ chase him away. Promise.” Wilbur’s tone is firm, almost challenging him to believe otherwise.

It’s more comforting than anything Tommy’s ever heard. He nods, and as the trees open up to the abandoned plains of Logsteadshire, he finds he can actually breathe when he sees the familiar terrain. It’s a bit uneven and he has to work up the courage to really step out into the grassy field, but he does it, and Wilbur keeps hold of his hand all the while as they slowly cross to the campsite and begin gathering items to take back with them.

Tommy thinks he’s holding it together pretty damn well, all things considered, until he opens a barrel to the smell of gunpowder, and ends up backpedaling so quickly he doesn’t even realize why he’s shaking so hard for a few seconds.

It’s almost overpowering, the panic he feels in that moment. Dream’s going to find them here and he’s going to make him destroy everything he’s got on him, and then he’s going to get punished _more_ for running and hiding for so long, and Dream will hurt Wilbur, and--

“Tommy?”

He can’t breathe right. His chest hurts, he feels all restricted and like he’s been backed into a corner. Everything’s too loud and all he can smell is the _gunpowder_ and his ears are fucking ringing with the ghosts of explosions.

“Oh, fuck, Tommy, hey,” Wilbur’s voice says, cutting through the din, “c’mon, Tommy, look at me--look at me, man.”

“Wil,” Tommy says, voice cracking, “can--can we go?”

Wilbur’s hand finds his, and he clutches it so tightly he’s sure it hurts. Wilbur cringes, but nods. “Okay. Breathe, dude, you’re gonna be fine. Let’s go.”

Tommy stumbles after him, clutching the bag he’d been shoving things into with one hand, gripping Wilbur’s hand in a deathgrip with the other. Wilbur doesn’t make a noise of complaint, just quietly and calmly leading him away from the campsite. Tommy’s still breathing too hard and too fast, clutching at anything he can with bone-white knuckles. It’s only when his legs are shaking too much for him to walk and he starts crying that they slow down, and Wilbur sits him down in the grass.

“Tommy,” he says, quietly, calmly, “breathe with me, okay?”

“Piss off,” he gasps, and Wilbur sighs.

“Tommy,” he warns, and something in his voice reminds him of Dream. Almost immediately, he begins trying to control his breathing.

“I’m _trying,_ ” he grits out.

Wilbur is silent--just taking deep breaths, hands on Tommy’s shoulders. It’s restricting and comforting all at once, and Tommy isn’t quite sure if he likes it. A few minutes pass, the two of them sitting there, though it could be hours or aeons for all Tommy knows. It certainly feels like it. Slowly, though, he manages to calm himself, and wordlessly, Wilbur pulls him to his feet.

The two of them make the trek home in contemplative quiet. Tommy is just thankful that Wilbur doesn’t press the incident when they get home.

* * *

“Techno,” Tommy says one day when Techno is totally busy watching the bee farm, “fight me.”

“I’m busy,” he says, flatly, very obviously not busy.

Tommy groans, flopping backwards into the snow. “Techno,” he whines, “I’m bored. Please, man, just one round.”

“I’m going to kick your ass and you’re going to be butthurt for the next few hours. I don’t want to deal with that.” Techno picks up a handful of snow and halfheartedly throws it at Tommy’s face. It misses.

“You don’t know that. Maybe I’ve gotten really good.” Tommy sits up, giving Techno what he can only describe as puppy-dog eyes. It’s a look that always makes Wilbur melt.

“No.” Techno is not as weak.

“Please?”

Fuck.

That is how they end up out in the snow, in full enchanted netherite, Techno gripping his battleaxe in both hands and Tommy holding his sword, grinning wider than he has in weeks. It’s refreshing, to be honest. They’re both going the extra mile for this sparring session, but Tommy’s been wanting to try out the gear for weeks, so he supposes it won’t hurt. They both know their limits.

Techno counts them down from five (he’s learned to avoid the number ten), and they begin.

Tommy’s gotten better. He’ll grant him that--his footwork is better, smarter, his slashes are more precise and stronger for their confidence. But in the end, Techno is more practiced, and he manages to slam Tommy into the snow, pinning him there with one foot and pointing his axe to Tommy’s throat.

“Again?” Tommy asks, and Techno helps him up from the snow.

It’s more of a proper fight, this time. Tommy is faster and smarter and generally more strategic. He’s good at more deceptive tactics, Techno’s noted, and he’s so caught up in analyzing what the kid needs to work on that he doesn’t actually notice he’s bleeding, at first.

It’s only when Tommy freezes and drops his sword into the snow that Techno realizes _oh, he actually got me pretty good._

“Shit,” Tommy stutters, “I--I’m sorry, fuck, shit, I--Technoblade?”

Techno pats the wound, hand coming away reddened by the blood. It doesn’t seem that deep--it’s just along his forearm. He’s had far worse wounds, in far more dangerous places. Blood drips into the snow. The voices in the back of his mind murmur restlessly at the sight and scent of it. Tommy seems to somehow freeze even further, and Techno figures he should probably reassure the kid before he drives himself all the way to a panic attack.

“I’m fine,” he says, gruffly, “it was a pretty weak swing. You barely scratched me.”

“You’re bleeding,” Tommy says, numbly, still staring at where the blood is staining the snow, “like, a lot.”

“People bleed,” Techno says, flatly, beginning to trot back towards the house. “C’mon, you can make it up to me by making me tea or something.”

Tommy doesn’t move. He’s still staring at the blood in the snow. Techno hesitates for a few moments, voices eerily and unusually quiet in his ears, before he decides that’s enough.

“Tommy, come on. You’re gonna freeze out here. Get your sword.”

It takes him another minute. But eventually, he comes inside.

It’s only when they shut the door that the voices begin to murmur again.

* * *

It’s on a night when Tommy is feeling particularly brave, emboldened by the vulnerability the lot of them have been showing during the past few weeks. He’s helping Techno clean up after dinner, drying dishes with an old rag that he thinks he recognizes from the days spent in the cottage just outside of the SMP’s lands. Something about it makes Tommy ache for simpler times. The little bloodstain on the edge of the fabric just reminds him of all the hurting, instead.

“I’m a little scared of Wilbur,” he admits all in one breath, quiet as if the brother in question can hear them from the village he and Phil are visiting before the sun goes down all the way.

Techno pauses in where he’s scrubbing the dishes. He sets a plate aside. The gentle clink of the china against the counter is enough to make Tommy cringe.

“Is he doing anything?” Techno asks, voice careful and concerned. Tommy shakes his head.

“He’s just… sometimes I remember some of the stuff he did.” He rubs an arm awkwardly, looking down at the rag in his other hand. “And I don’t think he’s going to do any of it again, but. But I think about it, sometimes.”

Techno sighs, softly, short and through his nose. A hand lands awkwardly on his shoulder, rubs it in an attempt at comfort. Somehow, it’s enough to calm Tommy’s racing heart. He leans into the touch, though Techno is fairly quick to pull away. It’s a bit disheartening, but that’s just the nature of Technoblade, he supposes. Tommy looks up at him, whining like a wounded cat, and Techno raises his eyebrows with a soft, amused snort.

“It’s okay to think about that stuff,” Techno says, voice quiet. “Hell, it’s okay if you’re still scared of him. He scares me sometimes.”

Tommy blinks. “He does?”

Techno manages a grin, lopsided and faintly amused. “The man started a revolution with his _voice._ He can make people do whatever he wants. He’s _terrifying._ It’s a good thing we’re on his good side.”

Tommy snorts, leaning against his shoulder, ignoring the way Techno huffs and stiffens a bit.

Maybe it’s just that he’s feeling softer than usual, or Techno is just being particularly warm right now, but Tommy finds the courage to ask: “Do you think he loves us?”

He worries he’s overstepped a boundary in the beat of silence that follows. But Techno’s arm wraps around Tommy’s shoulders and holds him close, protective and careful all at once. He hears Techno inhale, then exhale unsteadily, an uneven and shaky sound.

It’s reminiscent of softer times, simpler times. Times when Tommy could curl up in Techno’s lap or Wilbur’s lap and rest easy, knowing they were looking out for him. He recalls nights spent half-asleep, draped against Technoblade’s shoulder, hands half-tangled in his hair as he dozes partway through a braid--Wilbur will gently tug the strands out of Tommy’s fingers and complete his work, plucking flowers from the window box and weaving them into the pink strands, soft blues and whites and yellows that Tommy will sleepily admire from his position against Techno’s shoulder.

He misses those nights, spent tangled together by the fireplace with flowers in their hands and smoke drifting up the chimney, gentle and sweet. Nights where nightmares didn’t plague them, and Tommy could sleep easy in his brothers’ holds.

“He always has,” Techno says, “more than anything in the world.”

He says it with conviction enough to make Tommy believe him.

* * *

“Fuckin’ birds,” Tommy grumbles, settling onto the stool behind Phil, who lets out a bark of laughter.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, grinning as he stretches his wings and ruffles his feathers, and Tommy rolls his eyes.

“You’re lucky Wilbur’s taught me how to do all this shit,” he huffs, and an amused, rumbling chirp rises in the back of Phil’s throat.

“He taught you an awful lot, hm?” Phil straightens one of the feathers he can reach, and Tommy sets to work fixing the ones he can’t.

“About half the shit I know, sure,” Tommy says, voice smoothing out into something resembling calm, almost fond. “He’s always been… I dunno, he likes to push me a lot. I think he likes teaching people how to do things. He does it all the time.”

Phil hums. “He’s always liked learning things. Sharing knowledge, and all that.”

Tommy tilts his head a bit as he continues straightening feathers and brushing dust and stray fluff away. “How long have you known the two of them, again?”

There’s a few beats of quiet. Phil hums again, softer this time. “... since Techno was your age, and Wilbur… he was a few years older.”

It’s strange. This man who, for all intents and purposes, has acted as something akin to a father figure to Tommy, really doesn’t know much about him. And he doesn’t know much about Phil either--they know each other’s trauma (if only the sort that has been formed by this godforsaken SMP) and know what sort of pain they’ve endured, and yet Tommy couldn’t tell you over a dozen personal details about the man sitting in front of him.

He’s broken from his train of thought as he reaches the damaged part of Phil’s wing. His hands hover uncertainly over the feathers, some burnt and shriveled, the wings an unappealing sight. He doesn’t know how they don’t hurt all the time--they look like they ought to. Maybe they do, and Phil’s just good at hiding it.

Carefully, agonizingly slowly, Tommy sorts out the feathers on the damaged areas, watching with bated breath for any sign of discomfort. Phil sits calmly throughout it all, but Tommy sees the way he cringes the tiniest bit at certain movements, the way he tenses a bit when Tommy’s hand brushes the more damaged feathers a bit too roughly.

It’s something he’s seen an awful lot of in himself.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Phil says, voice strained.

“Wilbur really fucked us over,” Tommy blurts before he can stop himself, “didn’t he?”

Phil snorts, though it’s entirely unamused. “He sure did.”

“Is it bad I kind of hate him sometimes?” Tommy murmurs. Phil is quiet for a few long moments.

“I think that’s only natural, mate,” he finally says, sounding conflicted. “He hurt us and himself plenty. That’s just a fact.”

“Mm,” Tommy hums, frowning. “... I don’t want to hate him.”

He can almost see Phil’s sad smile, despite the fact he isn’t facing him. He hears Phil’s nervous laugh, and it’s somehow comforting, the normalcy of it.

“Can’t always control the way you feel,” he says, ruffling his feathers and tucking his wings close to his back. Tommy straightens out a final few as Phil talks. “You just have to keep movin’ forward, despite it.”

Tommy sighs, long and drawn out and over-exaggerated, drawing another bout of laughter from Phil. “Everyone always says to just keep fuckin’ moving,” Tommy mutters.

Phil snorts, nudging him with one wing. “Well, they’re right.”

“I can still be mad about it,” Tommy grumbles, sitting back on the stool. Phil laughs again, freer and less strained, this time.

A hand lands on his shoulder, gentle and far less awkward than Techno. Phil smiles, and though it’s strained, it’s genuine. Tommy manages an awkward little smile in return.

“At the end of the day, mate, you care about him, and he cares about you. I don’t think…” he trails off, glancing out the window. “... I don’t know. He fucked up. And he knows he did. He’s trying to make up for it.”

Tommy stares out the window with him, silent for a few long moments.

“... I want to forgive him,” Tommy says, quietly. “Eventually.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Phil says, and for once, it feels like he means it.

* * *

Tubbo is about an hour late.

Wilbur isn’t one to worry. That’s a lie, but it’s one he’s telling himself over and over again as he paces back and forth in Technoblade’s kitchen. Tubbo’s a smart and capable young man, Wilbur knows he can wiggle his way out of most scenarios, but the fact of the matter is that they agreed to meet an hour before sunset, and the sun is beginning to go down and Tubbo hasn’t even sent a message.

He’s checked. Several times. His communicator is still open on the table. Fucking nothing.

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Tubbo,” Wilbur mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair as he gazes out the window. He doesn’t see anyone on the horizon, coming from the nether portal.

Tommy and Techno are out exploring today. Phil is upstairs, reading and researching something. Things are just right for a more private visit with the president, and he’s not fucking here. Wilbur has half a mind to just go back to L’manburg himself, but fear of what might happen if he shows his face there keeps him rooted in Techno’s house.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to consider the idea of visiting L’manburg for long, because finally a knock comes to the door.

Wilbur crosses the room in seconds, throwing open the door. Tubbo stands out in the snow, looking exhausted.

“Hi Wilbur,” he says, all proper and polite and Tubbo-like. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey Tubbo,” Wilbur says, stepping back to let him in. “It’s fine. What kept you so long, man?”

Tubbo’s shoulders sag, at that. He sighs, rubbing his eyes with both hands. “Big Q was pestering me. He wanted to know what I was doing, where I was going. Told him I was gonna go out to collect building supplies.”

Wilbur shuts the door behind him. “I can send you back with some spare spruce wood, if you want.”

Tubbo smiles, a little strained. “Thanks.”

Wilbur hums. “It’s no problem. C’mon, come sit down, you look tired. How’s L’manburg?”

They move further into the kitchen, Tubbo sinking into a seat at the table. He looks less like a president, more like a tired kid right now, dressed in one of his older jumpers and overalls. It’s not nearly warm enough for the snow, but it’s better than a suit that’s a bit too big.

Wilbur begins making hot chocolate, the way Phil does. Tubbo leans on the table, resting his chin in his hand.

“L’manburg’s okay,” he starts, “Quackity and Fundy are more in charge than I am, to be honest. They’re, uh, they’re very pushy.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “Do you push back?”

“I’ve been trying to,” Tubbo says, defensive. “Big Q is just… really, um. Persuasive.”

 _That’s one word for it,_ Wilbur thinks to himself, brow furrowing. “You can be pretty damn convincing yourself, mate.”

Tubbo shrugs. “I guess. Not much has been happening, though. They keep saying they have some big plans, but they haven’t told me what they want to do yet. So I’m waiting on that.”

The last time someone had big plans for L’manburg, it ended up getting blown to bloody bits. Wilbur grimaces at the thought, sliding a mug of hot chocolate to Tubbo, before starting on one for himself. He considers adding some alcohol.

“Don’t be afraid to bully ‘em into telling you things, Tubbo. Part of being a leader is knowing when not to take any shit.” Wilbur sits down in a chair across from him. Tubbo stirs his hot chocolate and looks at it miserably.

“Last time I tried to take charge, Tommy got exiled,” Tubbo mumbles, sinking down into his chair. “I’m kind of shit at this, Wilbur.”

Wilbur forces himself to keep his expression neutral. That’s kind of why he chose Tubbo for the job, truth be told--he didn’t think L’manburg would really recover. He’s honestly impressed that they’ve gotten as far as they have--it sort of paints the kid in a new light, for him.

“You’re not _shit,_ Tubbo. No president has ever known what they were doing. I just fuckin’ made it up as I went, man, and it was scary! But you’ve got good men backing you up, even if they’re a little misguided.” Wilbur leans forward, grinning. “Make this country your _bitch,_ Tubbo. It’s yours! No-one else’s! Big Q and Fundy can’t tell you what to do if you don’t let them.”

Tubbo just raises his eyebrows. “You make it sound so easy,” he deadpans, and Wilbur leans back with a shrug, lifting his mug to his lips.

“Honestly, Tubbo, I still kinda want L’manburg gone.” He holds up a hand as Tubbo opens his mouth, looking affronted. “I don’t want to blow it up again. Techno wants to, but I don’t. There are better ways to get rid of it that _don’t_ involve the violent destruction of everything everyone’s ever loved.”

Tubbo stares at him, incredulous. “I thought you were all, like, woo, chaos, blood, death and destruction, _let’s go cause chaos once this is all done Technoblade,_ what--”

Wilbur grimaces. “I was. I don’t really know. Right now, I don’t--I don’t want to destroy it again, Tubbo. It didn’t change anything.”

They sit there in silence, for a few long moments. Finally, Tubbo speaks. “You just wanna, what, dissolve the nation?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Tubbo looks down at his mug, swirling the hot chocolate around with his spoon. Wilbur sips his own, glancing out the window. There are clouds on the horizon--a storm is on its way, most likely. They should hurry it up.

“Anything you want me to tell Tommy?” Wilbur asks, pushing back from his chair as he moves to put their mugs in the sink.

He hears Tubbo shift in his seat, the sharp intake of breath. “Actually. I wanted to ask you about him.”

Wilbur freezes, hands still in the sink. Slowly, he pulls back, pivoting to face Tubbo as he leans on the counter. “Yeah?”

Tubbo swallows. He looks almost embarrassed, ashamed, afraid. “How… is he?”

That… is a very loaded question. Wilbur considers the kid in front of him, keeping his expression schooled as to not betray anything just yet. He doesn’t know what to tell Tubbo. He doesn’t know what Tommy would want him to tell Tubbo. He’s pretty sure Tommy wouldn’t tell Tubbo anything at all.

“He’s okay,” Wilbur says, quietly. “Getting better. Kind of a pain in the ass.”

Tubbo snorts. It’s only just barely amused. “At least that hasn’t changed.”

That earns a bark of laughter and a grin, and Tubbo manages to smile back, breaking out into giggles.

“He misses you,” Wilbur finally says, looking awfully fond. “Once we get all this shit sorted out, you two oughtta just run off for a few days and take some time to hang out.”

Tubbo sits up, eyes wide. “We’re gonna go sailing,” he says, insistent. Wilbur raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t drown him.”

Tubbo laughs, at that, “I dunno, maybe he’ll deserve it.”

Wilbur snorts. “True, though.”

They’re quiet for a few moments more. Finally, Tubbo stands, beginning to make his way towards the door. “I’ll think about the whole… dissolving the nation, um, thing.”

Wilbur softens in a way reserved for Tommy and Tubbo, alone. “... thank you, Tubbo.”

He smiles, a strained little thing, and Wilbur watches him make his way to the horizon, then beyond.

He doesn’t notice the second set of footprints in the snow.

* * *

Tommy isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting here.

His fingers have gone numb, and the rest of him is ice-cold as he stares at the stone altar resting in the snow. He isn’t sure why he’s out here, or what his plan is--he just knows that he’s here, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been here. He just knows that it’s dark, and everyone else is asleep.

Part of him worries about the danger, the mobs and the frostbite. The rest of him can’t tear his eyes away from the altar.

This thing, this _fucking_ thing is the reason Techno hurts, more often than not. This crude little set-up, this offering to a deity that has never cared for any of them, this is the reason Tommy is afraid of Technoblade, at times. He doesn’t understand it--how can one little pile of bloodstained rocks cause so much carnage, so much hurting? Techno doesn’t sleep half of the time, and the other half is when he’s plagued by nightmares, visions from this cruel monstrosity that Tommy doesn’t even really know the name of.

“You fuckin’ suck,” he says, out loud into the bitter, cold air. The stones hum with magic in response.

Tommy thinks he should probably be scared, but it only spurs him on further instead. “Yeah. You bitch. All you do is hurt people, you hurt the Blade and you hurt Wilbur and you _probably_ hurt Phil, what’s even the point? I’d fuckin’ kick your shitty little altar over if it’d do anything.”

There is an angry chorus of whispers in the back of his mind, and Tommy freezes. He doesn’t understand a single word, but the emotion and intention behind them is clear.

“Fuck you,” he bites out with a huff, pulling his cloak tighter about him, clinging to its warmth. The altar seems to know he’s all bark and no bite, and for some reason, that’s more terrifying than it should be. “You’re not worth my fucking time.”

He marches back inside and out of the snow, hanging his cloak up by the door. The house is eerily quiet and dark, what with everyone else asleep, and Tommy hesitates in the doorway of the living room for a few agonizingly long seconds. He doesn’t want to go back down to the basement--it’s far too cold, and he doesn’t want to risk waking Wilbur on the way past the room he’s stolen for himself. So instead he pads into the living room, snatches the flint and steel from the cabinet by the fireplace, and sets the kindling alight. The warm glow of the flames washes away the cold, uneasy feeling he’d gotten, standing out in the snow by the altar. It feels far more comforting than the warmth of the altar, the way it had felt when he’d pressed himself against it to hide, a few nights ago.

He decides he doesn’t like gods, if they’re all like that.

Tommy sinks into a chair by the fire, pulling his legs up and dragging a blanket over from the couch, curling up there and staring into the flames. Slowly, it gets harder and harder to keep his eyes open. Slowly, he begins to fall asleep. He closes his eyes, and lets himself fall into the darkness.

When he wakes up in the morning, all he recalls of his dreams is that they were plagued with nothing but blood.

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading!! follow me @ cacowhistle on tumblr and twitter for more frequent updates (i'm more active on tumblr). also i have a twitch under the same name. go follow me there.


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